


With A Broken Wing

by babyboyplaid



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Complicated Relationships, Daddy Kink, Dark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts, Teacher-Student Relationship, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 03:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11797020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyboyplaid/pseuds/babyboyplaid
Summary: Dean is just an angel caught in a hurricane. His life is a wreck and he is on a collision course with disaster. With very few options, and a few of them grim, he turns to someone he can trust for help. That someone is his English teacher, Mr. Samuel Winchester.





	With A Broken Wing

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! Thanks for taking a look at my fic. 
> 
> For starters, I want you to know that this is a very dark fic. There is very explicit abuse. Dean contemplates both murder and suicide in this fic. His father has been molesting him for years and Dean has a slightly different personality than in cannon. The fighter is still there though.

The weight of the night sinks in around Dean, holding him a prisoner in his bed. Most of the time, night is the worst time to be Dean Winchester. For whatever reason, he had received a harsh life sentence: one of having to live with a father whose demons were worse than any of those locked up in Hell. He blinked up at his ceiling and it was almost like he could feel the quiet before the storm. It didn't happen on every night that his father drank, which was every one. No, there was almost a darker feel to the nights when it was going to happen and Dean could feel that oppressive darkness. And he was scared.

  
Rolling over, he looked at the clock on his bedside table and it read 11:00pm sharp. He had school in the morning and really ought to be getting some sleep. It was hard, though, sleeping when he had this threat looming over his head. Dean wasn't exactly sure how this had all started but he knew he was in over his head now. And if he ever dared to resist... that just made it worse. There was a clinking down stairs and Dean just stilled himself. Swallowing thickly, he heard the ever familiar thump of boots coming up the old wooden stairs and Dean shivered; the sound had stopped at his door. Steeling himself, he blinked a few times as he heard his door getting pushed open and his father came walking into the room.

  
John didn't have a shirt on at that point and kicked his boots off at the edge of Dean's bed. There was some kind of fucked up wiring in his brain because he knew his father was handsome; knew that hairy chest and sharp jawline would probably turn him on were this almost any other situation. Dean didn't even say anything as he moved over in his bed, getting up against the wall to make room for the man. John sank down into the bed and smirked over at Dean, the smell of whiskey pouring off of him. Dean was only in his boxers and could feel the rough denim against his legs.

  
Dean let out a soft breath and felt those dreaded fingers lace into his hair. He just closed his eyes as John tried to push him down below the covers but there was something in Dean that was resisting. Whimpering, he tried to defend himself from his father.

  
“Dad... not tonight.”

  
He really should have known better because all it earned him was a sharp slap to the face. Dean could taste the blood in his mouth already and he recoiled as far as he could.  
“You best get that little whore mouth to work.” John ordered.

  
Dean let himself get pushed down this time and he heard John open his jeans as his half hard cock flopped out. Even if he didn't want to admit, he knew how to play this game all too well. Dean let his lips part and felt his father pushing his hips up to find the empty space between them. There was a deep moan from the older man as the cock found it's way into the depths of Dean's mouth, pushing back into his throat. At that point, Dean didn't have much of a gag reflex left and he just gave an eager suck, just trying to please the monster in his bed.

  
More overwhelming than the cock that was currently forcing it's way into the reaches of Dean's throat was the smell of John. His classic, masculine musk mixed with the smell of whiskey to create an explosive duo for Dean. He wanted to curse every cell in his body and tell them not to light up at that smell; to not respond in ways that would confuse the man he was forced to call his father. But Dean was helpless against the simply biology and he felt his own cock grow hard in his boxers, pressing hard into his own leg.

  
John gave a few thrusts into Dean's mouth and that elicited a few gags from the young boy. Then came an immediate, harsh saltiness in his mouth and Dean knew exactly what was coming next. He braced himself for impact and when his father let out his grunts that always gave him away, Dean knew it was too late. The cum flooded into his mouth and throat, overwhelming all of his senses and bringing him down onto that taste in his mouth. He swallowed obediently and gave the man's cock a few licks after he was allowed off it. John simply threw his arms up above his head and Dean sighed. The nightmare was over and now he could get some sleep.

  
When the morning light streamed in on his face, Dean blinked harshly and realized he was all but plastered against John. He groans a bit to himself and climbs out of the bed and stumbles down the hall way. He hears his father groan in his absence but he just keeps walking down to the bathroom. He takes care of his morning business before looking up into the mirror and wincing. There was a large cut on his lip from when he had gotten slapped the night before. He let out a low breath and brushed a hand through his hair before fixing it with a comb and finished up by brushing his teeth, scrubbing a little hard this time to clean his father out of his mouth.

  
Once he was dressed, he bounded down the stairs off the porch and set off for school. It was just a mile to get to school and there was even a field he could cut across if he felt like taking a short cut. There was still a dew on the flowers so he stuck to the road as he wound his way down to the school. It was his Sophomore year in high school. The feeling of fall was settling in around him as he crunched over leaves making his way up the front steps of the school. He tugged his jacket a little closer though as a breeze swept over him.

  
Dean was so keenly aware of the eyes of the other students that followed him. He was sure that the rumors flew around the small school. Most everyone was aware that he liked boys in the way that he was supposed to like girls which didn't help his case at all. Then there was the fact that everyone knew his father was a raging alcoholic. Add onto that fact that he sometimes had bruises, or a busted lip like that morning, and he knew the rumor mill was churning out all the juicy gossip about him.

  
He kept his head down though and avoided all of their eyes. A long time ago he had just convinced himself it would make things easier if he just stuck to himself. It was hard though. One pair of eyes caught his from across the yard and he looked up to lock gazes with one Castiel. He was reminded that he wasn't so utterly alone but Cas wasn't much of a friend. The other boy only texted him when the witching hour struck and he had an itch that needed to be scratched. They had started out as lab partners once upon a time but soon Cas discovered a much better use for Dean.

  
The only use there ever seemed to be for Dean.

  
Dean clutched his books to his chest as he made his way into the school halls and his classes began for the day. There was no way that Dean would call himself the smartest kid in school but he always stayed focused on his books and work. He knew that they would be his ticket to freedom. He was going to sneak out from under John's nose if it killed him. For the most part, Dean didn't even mind his classes. There was even one he looked forward to. Sophomore year English with Mr. Samuel Winchester. It wasn't lost on him that they shared the last name, though as far as he could tell, there was no relation at all. He could try to convince himself that he was mainly interested in the fiction they got to read but there was a reassuring quality to Mr. Winchester's smile. Dean always got good grades in that class and he felt like Mr. Winchester might have a small soft spot for Dean.

  
Or maybe that was just fiction he was making up in his head.

  
None of the students had to technically be in class before the bell rang and on Mondays, hardly anybody did. But Dean was a special case and once he got things settled in his locker, he got what he needed and made a quick trip down to his first class for the day. It wasn't at all unusual for him to be the first student through the door and he gave a small grin to Mr. Winchester. It was returned by the middle aged man quickly and Dean took his seat. It went without saying that it was in the first row.

  
Slowly, people began to file in and when the bell rang, there was a panicked rush to get into class rooms. Mr. Winchester simply reminded the class that the beginning of class was at the bell and they needed to be there on time. With his obligatory chastising out of the way, he set into his lecture for the day and Dean did his best to take notes. Currently, they were working their way through To Kill A Mockingbird. Dean was utterly obsessed with the book and had already finished it by the time everyone was only required to be on chapter four.

  
Dean watched with a guilty pleasure as Mr. Winchester strutted about the room and Dean found his mind filling up with thoughts of the older man. Dean wanted those broad hands to swallow his shoulders, holding the boy close. Except there were hands on his shoulders and Dean nearly gasped as he turned around. Only, there was no hands on his shoulders and he frowned before feeling his father's breath on his neck and it was all he could do not to scream. It had ghosted over his skin, caught in the realm of too real but not real to anyone but Dean. He wanted to flee the room but he turned back in his seat and caught a glare from Mr. Winchester. He ducked his head like a puppy who had just been caught being mischievous and resumed working on his notes.

  
But the moment is over as soon as it had started and Dean is once again drawn into the lull of Mr. Winchester's voice. It carried a soft, melodic tone to it as the man listed out some of the current themes they were working on in the book. Of course, Dean knew the older man could get stern if he had to and he was sure everyone in the class understood it as well. They all knew well enough to not test the mild mannered man because if they did, his wrath would be coming out. And that was anything but mild.

  
The bell rings and everyone begins to pack up their stuff. Mr. Winchester is making his last few announcements for the class, reminding them all to make sure they got through with the reading before tomorrow's class. He all but told them there was going to be a quiz on the material but Dean wondered if any of them had actually picked up on it. Dean was always sure to pick up on it. He had to. As he was getting ready to leave the room, he's stopped by a voice that makes him shuffle his feet a bit.

  
“Dean, if I could have a moment please. I'll be sure to give you a note for your next teacher.” Mr. Winchester had called out to him before having a seat at his desk, waving him over.

  
Dean swallowed the thick fears churning in his gut; they gnawed at him, trying to convince him he had fucked up somehow. The voices of his fear were all but pounding in his ear as he came to a stop at the desk. Then, the swelling crescendo fell to dead silence as Dean struggled to look up at the man's face. At least he knew how to do this part, albeit almost on a script.

  
“Yes, sir?” He questioned, his voice low.

  
“How was your weekend?” The man said, his voice staying at the same level of Dean's.

  
“It was alright.” Dean replied, almost too quickly.

  
“Everything going good at home?” Sam asked

  
Fuck. Alarms started going off in his head and Dean could feel his feet quivering below him. There was a certain level of paranoia that nearly paralyzed Dean on the spot and he had to choke back a whimper. Now he was certain that word was going to get back to his father that questions had been raised and that Dean had ratted on him. Dean knew that would not end well for him.

  
“Everything is fine.”

  
Mr. Winchester is searching Dean's face, prodding in like he doesn't believe the boy. Dean knows the man shouldn't believe him because it was, in fact, a lie. There was no way that the boy could say that though. Running a hand through his hair, Dean pointedly avoided making eye contact with the older man; he felt like all of his truth would just come spilling out and Dean couldn't have that. There was some quick scribbling from Mr. Winchester onto a piece of a paper. One half of the sheet was a note for his next teacher and the other half had two phone numbers on it.

  
“The top number is the hot line number for the National Center for Abused Children. Maybe you have a friend who needs that number.” The words come across as more of an accusation than an attempt at comfort. “Against my better judgment, the bottom one is my personal cell phone number. Call me if you need anything, ok?”

  
Against his better judgment, Dean tucks the numbers into the back pocket of his jeans. There is a quite moment where Dean is not denying what Mr. Winchester is saying. He can tell the man knows. When Dean thought about it, he figured it wasn't hard to put two and two together. Dean fidgets with his hands before he is turning on the spot.

  
“Thank you.” It's quieter than he normally speaks and Mr. Winchester simply gives a nod to acknowledge what was said.

  
Turning on his heels, Dean walked from the room and his cheeks were flushed and tears were threatening to spill over from his eyes. There was no way he could go to his next class in this state. Instead, he just made a quick path to the restroom and slumped against the wall in the stall. The tears came hot and heavy as he stood there, feeling the most amount of shame he ever had in his whole life. Nothing – no name calling, no bullying – had ever called up this deep well of shame that Dean had been carrying around with him for years. Most days he could keep it hidden, tucked away out of view. But today, Mr. Winchester had shone a light directly onto it and Dean wasn't sure he was ready for that.

  
The rest of the school day passes in a blur. His mind is still playing through the scene with Mr. Winchester and the way that man had looked at him; it was almost as if he had an accusatory glint in his eyes. Voices swirled around in Dean's head, causing his heart to begin to race. The man obviously knew something was up and Dean wasn't sure how much longer he could hold the truth at bay. Most everyone at his school had to know that he was getting abused. But it was a small town and no one wanted to rock the boat. So, it just slid under the radar.

  
For the most part, Dean could handle his father. He was an expert at predicting the pattern that his father would follow. And if Dean didn't resist, then most of the time things went ok for Dean. Then there were the times that his father just needed to take out aggression. And what better target than his fourteen year old son that wouldn't fight back. It mainly consisted of a rough spanking with his father's belt or the occasional slap to the face.

  
He shook himself free from the swirl of thoughts and memories spinning around his head as he heard the dismissal bell ring out at the end of the day. Gathering himself up, Dean practically bounded down the stairs on his way out of the school yard. He brushed past Cas once again but he just kept walking as he could feel the other boy's eyes digging into the back of his neck. Dean wanted to mutter the words 'coward' or something under his breath, as some kind of tension release. But he knew that wasn't right or fair. Cas was in a much more delicate situation than Dean was. If Cas' father ever found out about his son's secret desires then Dean could only imagine the man would try to 'exorcise the homosexual demons' out of Cas or some other foolishness.

  
And that was some grade A, fuck-you-up-for-life kind of shit. However, it wasn't Dean's monkey's nor was it his circus.

  
He took the shortcut to get home, hopping down into the lush growth of the field. The long, untamed grass brushed along his calves as he made his way down a familiar path. Daisy's were in bloom in the field and Dean began to pick a few as he walked, slowly starting to form a daisy chain. Once he had enough for a crown, he placed them onto his head and began to snap a few fun, ridiculous selfies.

  
He couldn't ignore the busted lip so prominent in the photos.

  
As he is fidgeting with his phone, it buzzes and he sees a text message come in. It's from Cas and that earns a big groan from the boy as he clicks it open.

  
“Your dad is out of control.” The words read on the screen.

  
“Don't talk about my dad.” It was cold, unforgiving.

  
Perhaps they could be a thing after the multiple times he had blown the boy in the bed of his truck, way out on one of many country roads. Maybe they could have made a go of a relationship after the way Cas whispered words into Dean's ears that made him shiver and bend to the other's desires. It could have all been wonderful except Cas would barely acknowledge Dean's existence inside the school halls anymore.

  
But there was always those eyes watching him. And Dean always made sure to let Cas know he wasn't forgiven.

  
“You can't avoid me forever.”

  
“I can sure as hell try.”

  
“Come on, don't be like that.”

  
“Text one of you foot ball buddies, maybe he'll suck your dick.”

  
It was borderline petty but Dean was just done with the situation and felt like that a swift kick to his pride would shut the conversation down. Well, it didn't. There was still a string of texts coming in from Cas but Dean was just making a point of ignoring them and moving on with his life.

  
Eventually, Dean makes it home and starts to work on cleaning the house up a little bit. It mainly consists of throwing away old liquor bottles and clearing out some other trash that his father had left in his wake. He finds his father, slumped in a chair and passed out. A flare of rage hits him but only because he's emboldened by his father not being conscious. He grabbed a large butcher knife from a kitchen drawer and stood towering over his father. Red filled his vision and he heard his heartbeat thundering in his ear drum. He wanted to make his father pay for everything he had done. Dean wanted to feel the man's blood on his hands, watch as his skin ripped underneath the blade. There was a small, but persistent voice in the back of his mind urging him forward.

  
But Dean couldn't bring himself to do it.

  
He let the knife clatter from his hands down onto he counter top and ran out the backyard into the cooling evening air. Running a hand through his hair, Dean gasped a couple of times and quickly wiped at the edges of his eyes before darting out across the field. Soon, he made it to a simple spot beside the road and came to a halt, trying to figure out the next part of his plan.

  
On a whim of inspiration, Dean took his phone out of his pocket and dialed Mr. Winchester. The man had said to call if he needed anything. And Dean really needed some help. He listened impatiently as the phone rang and then finally there was a click to let him know it had been answered.

  
“Hello?” The man's voice was softer than Dean was used to, more relaxed.

  
Dean on the other hand was an utter mess. “Hi – yeah, hey Mr. Winchester. It's Dean Winchester. I uh –.... I need some help.” His voice was ragged. “I just don't know how much more of this I can take.” That line took him by surprise.

  
“What are you talking about, Dean? Where are you?”

  
“I'm just tired. Tired of all of it.” He choked a bit on the words. “I'm off route 7, near the school. Literally on the side of the road.”

  
“Stay there, I'm coming.”

  
Mr. Winchesters voice was firm now, more like it used to be. And where was Dean going to go? He was afraid something bad would happen if he went back to his father. He was afraid of how that situation could end. Truth be told, Dean was ready to just implode everything if it meant he could at least get out. It was his best shot at survival.

  
Because if he went back to his house, him or his father would die. And Dean wasn't sure which end of that fight he would come out on.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know down in the comments what you think of this fic! I am working on it in real time so perhaps some of your feedback will help alter the course of this story. As always, I hope you all you enjoyed (as much as one can, I guess).


End file.
